


The Adventures of Nightbird and Blonde Chameleon

by bestkeptsecret



Category: Glee
Genre: (...kind of), Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Brainwashing, Extremely Dubious Consent, Foot Fetish, Hypnotism, M/M, Sleepwalking, Somnophilia, Tickling, kinky porn with kitschy plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17750558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestkeptsecret/pseuds/bestkeptsecret
Summary: Volume IV, Issue VIII: "THE SAM-CHURIAN CANDIDATE." Nightbird and Blonde Chameleon are apprehended after stealing back their Nationals trophy from the nefarious Warblers—and soon the dynamic duo find themselves embroiled in an insidious plot that threatens not only the New Directions...but their own free will!





	1. Cold Open

**Author's Note:**

> You'll notice this story has a very distinct format and flow to it. Dynamic Duets was always one of my favorite season four episodes and I've been doing a lot of screenwriting over the past few years, so my goal is to replicate that quirky style of comic-book storytelling in a full narrative. Plus, superhero shows are perfect for hypnosis and mind control plots, so this combo was a no-brainer (literally).
> 
> The basic plot outline comes from an RP I did with @sleepydudes-rp on tumblr. Thanks to Ashley for beta-ing.
> 
> Cue the jazzy theme music!

When last we left our heroes, they had infiltrated the Dalton Academy stronghold in hopes of recovering their Show Choir Nationals trophy — which was stolen by their nefarious, doo-wopping adversaries: THE WARBLERS.

With Blonde Chameleon's masterful vocal disguises and Nightbird's stealth prowess — as well as an extensive knowledge of the Academy's layout — the blazer-clad guards were a breeze to sneak past (it also helped that most of them were in class). Soon our heroes found themselves in the office of none other than HUNTER CLARINGTON, the Warbler's newest leader, a straight-laced military school transfer who rules his a cappella group with a fist of a iron and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

But even Dalton's state-of-the-art trophy security system was no match for the combined power of our heroic duo...

**BLAM!  
**

**SLAINE!**

Within minutes, Nightbird and BC were triumphantly fleeing the manicured grounds, trophy in hand. Anyone watching from the window at that moment would have caught but a passing billow of the Nocturnal Avenger's trademark ebony and turquoise cape before our heroes vanished from sight.

Which is exactly what Hunter and his smarmy sidekick SEBASTIAN SMYTHE saw. (Try saying that four times fast.)

"We did it!" Blonde Chameleon cheered, his loafers pounding the pavement as they slowed to a stop outside Dalton's towering gates. "That was so easy!"

"It sure was, BC," said Nightbird, adjusting his mask as they slipped past the security gate. "Almost too easy..."

"And leaving the blazer? Total power move." Blonde Chameleon clapped his friend on the shoulder as they approached Nightbird's trusty Birdmobile (a 2012 Chevy Malibu). "Except I think we left the grappling hook also."

"They can keep it," the Nocturnal Avenger said with a wave of his hand. "That's the last time I'll _ever_ set food in there."

Blonde Chameleon iconically full lips curved into a smile. "I gotta say, Nightbird...I'm glad you decided not to transfer. Everyone in the Society of Superheroes would miss you too much."

"Me too, pal," Nightbird answered, popping the trunk to safely stow their prize. He paused, then added, "It also would have my class credits really complicated."

"Well, at least you weren't homeless, dude." Blonde Chameleon had long since learned to not let his past define or shame him; moreover, he'd never considered classes his strongest suit to begin with (that honor was reserved for the slate grey ensemble he currently had on). Rather, he found his strength came from his friends and his unwavering loyalty to them — and his killer impressions.

The duo slid into the Malibu as Nightbird turned the key in the ignition — the engine gave a mighty _RUMBLE!_ —

But didn't start.

"Damn it," Nightbird hissed. Even though he rammed the key over and over, the Birdmobile remained stationary. They were stranded.

"What's going on, Nightbird?"

"Something's wrong with the engine." He slammed the wheel in frustration. With every moment they remained in the Dalton parking lot, their chances of being caught increased.

Blonde Chameleon's brow furrowed in thought, his jaw setting. "Okay. I'll go back to the security gate and use my impressions to make the guard think I'm his relief shift. Once I'm in there I can close the gate and buy us some time."

Even behind the mask, Nightbird's eyes glittered with amazement. "That's...actually really genius, Sam."

"No civilian identities on a mission, remember?" his counterpart said loudly with a wink. "Unless you're referring to one of Blonde Chameleon's many alter egos —"

"Yeah, okay, I got it, Blonde Chameleon." Nightbird looked back towards the security gate, took a breath, and nodded. Blonde Chameleon pumped his fist excitedly, clambering back out of the car.

"Wait!" Nightbird said. "What do I do, then?"

"Figure out what's wrong with the car, duh!"

With that, Blonde Chameleon jogged across the parking lot, the afternoon light shining off his hair. Nightbird leaned out of the front window, calling out in alarm:

"Hold on — I don't know how to fix a car! It's my dad's!"

But his partner was already out of earshot. Nightbird fell back against the headrest and sighed, allowing his lips to curl fondly into his cheek as he dwelled on the stray thought that had been gnawing at his mind all day: that Sam's ass looked pretty amazing in that suit.

**MEANWHILE...**

Blonde Chameleon crouched low as he neared the security gate. Creeping with all the prowess his six-foot-frame allowed, he sidled up to the guard's vestibule and lightly rapped his knuckles on the door.  The voice that came out of his oversized lips was nothing like his own: rather, it sounded gravely, low, and...vaguely Scottish...?

"Oy! Shift change," Blonde Chameleon rumbled, tapping into his, er, _distinctive_ Sean Connery impression. "Toime fo'ya brayk."

Moments passed in silence. He knocked again: "C'mon out!"

Still nothing. Confused, Blonde Chameleon gently pushed the door open and stepped inside...

The guardroom was empty. _How strange._

Moving quickly, Sam stepped over to the control panel that controlled the front gate, quickly identifying the large red button labeled "FRONT GATE CONTROLS." He pressed it and watched with relish as the gates began to close — very slowly.

With a roll of his eyes, Blonde Chameleon hammered the button a few more times to try and speed up the process — blissfully unaware of the DARK SHAPE looming behind him!

Our master of impressions barely had time to bark out a Bond-esque "Great Scott!" before a pair of hands pinned his arms behind him and slammed a pungent white cloth over his mouth.

**BACK AT THE BIRDMOBILE...**

Nightbird hunched over the open hood, staring at the array of wires and mechanical parts in front of him.

"This may as well be Greek to me," the caped crusader lamented. "Wonder what's taking Sam so long..."

He soon got his answer. Noticing a tiny calling card wedged in between a set of two gears, Nightbird gingerly pulled it out, revealing a single word:

_Checkmate?_

The sound of the gate closing behind him caught his attention. Nightbird whirled around — just in time to see a towering figure in Dalton blazer and ski mask pulling a limp body out of the security guard's office.

"Sa — I mean, Blonde Chameleon!" he shouted, but his partner remained unconscious, the heels of his loafers scuffing across the pavement as his captor shuffled towards the rapidly closing gate.

Nightbird instantly sprang into action —

Only to find his cape _stuck_ in one of the valves of the car!

Nightbird struggled to pull free, watching helplessly as Sam's limp form was pulled further and further away until he suddenly realized that, _w_ _ait_ ,His cape was removable. Duh.

Fingers fumbling with urgency, Nightbird detached the cape and sprinted across the parking lot. Dread dawned over him as he quickly realized that even his fastest pace wouldn't be enough to reach the gate in time. Damn his shorter-than-average legs!

"Stop!" he cried, which did about as much as one would expect.

Nightbird's final hope flared within him: he could see the figure in the ski mask was struggling to handle his abductee's weight as they ascended the curb...

And stumbled! Yes!

But the serendipity was short-lived: the villain quickly righted himself as one of Blonde Chameleon's loafers caught on the pavement and dislodged itself, laying discarded and forgotten.

The last thing Nightbird saw was one black sock being pulled through the wrought-iron gate, just as it closed behind them.

He threw himself against the iron bars and shook them furiously, his agonized cry echoed across the lawn: "BLONDE CHAMELEON!"

But it was no use. Sam was gone.

Blaine shucked off his mask and threw it to the ground, where it landed just a few inches away from Sam's loafer. The whole picture felt very Cinderella-esque, he thought to himself as he retrieved the shoe — if Cinderella had worn a size fourteen.

Head held low in despair, Blaine shuffled back to the Chevy Malibu, kicking the tire in frustration. With no other options, he grabbed his NightPhone from the center console, preparing to call a tow service. Just because he and Kurt were no longer together didn't mean Burt couldn't —

"Aw, _c'mon_!"

His phone was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the next installment of THE SAM-CHURIAN CANDIDATE...
> 
> Who kidnapped Sam? What will Blaine tell the Secret Society of Superheroes when he finally figures out how to fix his dad's car? And WHY does the Dalton front gate take so long to close?!
> 
> All these answers and more when we return!


	2. Act One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on THE SAM-CHURIAN CANDIDATE...
> 
> Nightbird and Blonde Chameleon's trophy retrieval mission took a turn for the worse when BC's last-minute act of reconnaissance resulted in half our pair being apprehended by a mysterious assailant as Nightbird watched, held back by his dramatic yet woefully impractical cape! What horrific fate awaits our hapless hunk?

Blonde Chameleon's green eyes slowly fluttered open. As his groggy vision slowly came back into focus, he did his best to take in the dim light of the room around him — but to no avail. When he tried to take an instinctual post-coma stretch, he found his arms bound to the plush chair on which he was seated. And though it was comfortable, it clearly did not bode well for our Peroxide Prince. His legs, too, seemed likewise restrained — and his right foot was strangely colder than the left. A diagnostic toe wiggle confirmed that, for some reason, one of his shoes had been removed.

Given this bizarre set of stimuli, the most articulate thing he could muster was a quiet, "Uh, hello?"

It was only then that the room suddenly came into sharper focus — and he realized that, in his conked out state, his black eye mask had simply slipped across his eyes partway and obscured his vision. So the good news: he could now clearly recognize the room in which he was imprisoned.

The bad news, of course, was that he was imprisoned.

"Hello, Sam Evans."

Right. His mask had been snatched off, and his civilian identity thusly exposed.

_Shit._

The voice came from behind his chair (which, Sam now noticed, was a plush crimson leather — very complementary to the room's dark wood furnishing). And though Sam valiantly craned his neck, he lacked the spinal flexibility to identify his captor. Perhaps he had one last opportunity...

"Oh, I'm not Sam," he said loudly, voice slipping into a thick, overblown Australian accent (he'd been really into Hugh Jackman in middle school). "I'm'is cousin from _down undah_ , Evan Evans —"

"Save it," said the voice, and Sam exhaled in as much relief as one could muster when one was imprisoned against their will — because at least his captor was walking around the chair and making himself known: none other than Hunter Clarington!

"Not the accent, though," he added. "That was just...awful."

Sam frowned. "Don't be a dick, man. I'm working on it."

"Well, it's not fooling anyone."

"What do you want, Hunter?" Sam wriggled against his restraints, but they held fast. (In addition to his military school background, Hunter had also gotten his Knots merit badge from Boy Scouts at a very young age.)

"I don't take kindly to people stealing my things —"

"You mean stealing them _back_!"

"So I figured a little payback was in order." Hunter took a seat in a chair across from Sam, one leg crossed as he surveyed his prisoner. "For you and the New Directions."

Sam had no idea what constituted 'payback' from the Warblers, but he certainly was not in the mood for another percussive female pop song cover. "Well," he replied, "they're gonna find me, alright? I'm sure Bla — I-I mean... _Nightbird_...is already searching for me with the Secret Society of Superheroes." He smirked, doing his best to hide his nerves beneath a triumphant tone:

"You can't keep me here forever!"

To his surprise, Hunter just chuckled. "We don't intend to, believe me. But rest assured, when you return to your friends, you'll be playing for a different team."

Sam cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Uh, dude, pretty sure you can't _turn_ me gay. I mean, there was that one time Kurt and I almost sang a duet together, but —"

"I meant show choirs, you idiot," Hunter snapped, dropping his face into the palm of his hand. Handsome and honorable as he was, this guy had to be one of the dumbest people he'd ever met (and he'd attended many a GOP fundraiser with his parents). "When we let you go, you'll be playing for the Warblers. Jesus."

But watching Hunter lose his cool like this just elicited a chuckle from the blonde. "There's even less of a chance of that, man," Sam said. "Those guys are my friends, and I'd never turn on my friends — not in a million years!"

Hunter's gaze darkened, giving Sam a look that uneasily reminded him of a cat toying with a mouse. "How noble of you, 'Blonde Chameleon.'" Slowly, the chiseled Warbler captain extended an arm, reaching for Sam's remaining left shoe. "But I think you'll find we have some fairly effective methods of convincing you..."

Unnerved by his foe's cryptic warnings, Sam jerked his foot back and forth, trying to avoid Hunter's inevitable grip on his shoe —"Um...uh, Hunter?" — but with the ropes binding his legs, it was no use. "What, uh...methods are you talking about?"

"We like to wear our subjects down, to start," Hunter said, gripping the shining black leather. "Something innocuous, that doesn't leave a mark."

Sam began jerking his foot around, trying in vain to avoid a fate that now seemed tragically imminent; if anything, the motion of his foot in fact made it _easier_ for Hunter to slide off Sam's second shoe. "Hey, c'mon, man! Stop it!" 

His protests fell on deaf ears, however, and within moments Sam's size fourteen feet were now out in front of him, clad in only his sheer black dress socks — their fabric so thin you could practically see through them. He clenched his toes reflexively, as if steeling himself for the inevitable.

"You seem nervous, Evans," Hunter said, placing the loafer off tothe side.

"I'm...I'm not nervous," Sam stammered, fighting to keep his tone as light as possible. "Why would I be nervous?"

"I certainly would be if I were you." Hunter leaned forward, brown eyes meeting Sam's green as a predator searches for weakness in its prey. "Especially if I was...ticklish, maybe."

Sam's mouth drew into a thin line. "Good thing I'm not ticklish, then."

"We'll see about that."

No sooner did Sam notice the villainous smirk on Hunter's face than the Warbler's hands were snaking up his trousers — and taking hold of his dress socks!

"You're wasting your time, dude," Sam said, a slight whine creeping into his voice. Hunter was already YANKING the socks down Sam's legs, over his ankles, around the heels —

"Hey-hey-hey-hey-hey..."

But it was no use! Blonde Chameleon had a number of weaknesses (among them: designer chapstick brands and the chorus of Barry Manilow's "Mandy"), but perhaps the most debilitating chink in his proverbial armor — his literal Achilles Heel — were his size fourteen feet, now splayed bare in front of him.

"Okay, okay, I'm ticklish!" Sam blurted frantically, toes twitching nervously. "But y-you don't have to do this, like...there are other ways —"

"That's what they all say," Hunter replied, crossing over to his desk and rummaging in one of the drawers.

Sam's green eyes narrowed. "Who else have you done this to?"

Hunter took his hand out out of the drawer — a large, single _feather_ balanced delicately between his fingers. "How do you think I got Sebastian to give up his captaincy?"

Sam shrugged. "Nightbird did say the show choir blogs are calling you the 'Castro of Show Choir.'"

"Oh, that's _funny_ ," Hunter deadpanned as he returned to Sam, who was already starting to his life flash before his eyes. "I'll make sure you laugh enough for the both of us. But no — it just so happens that Sebastian goes absolutely _bonkers_ if you run an electric toothbrush between his toes. So much that he'll promise _anything_ to get you to stop."

All comebacks on how _bizarre_ that sentence sounded to Sam flew from his mind at the sight of the feather nearing his exposed bare feet, which jerked back in forth in a last-ditch delay.

"No, no, Hunter, wai-hai- _hai-hai-hai-HAIT_!"

The feather ghosted across his sensitive soles, sending our valiant hero into a flutter of chuckles. He shook his foot to ward it off, but like shooing away a fly, it darted back in, running up and down the length of Sam's arch.

"No-ho-ho, _please sta_ -ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hap!!"

"Why stop, Evans?" Hunter said, grabbing Sam's foot to hold it in place so he could run the feather in between the toes. "Sounds like you're having a great time."

Sam howled with laughter, jerking his legs side to side within his immovable restrains. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Ple-he-he-he-hes, don't— _hahahahaha don't do thi_ -HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" The skin of his soles wrinkled as Hunter found a particularly sensitive spot and Sam clenched his feet in, desperately searching for some way to numb the vicious onslaught.

Hysterical laughter filled the room. Blonde Chameleon's face reddened beneath his trademark tresses, sweat already forming along the base of his brow. WHY did his outfit have to require a _turtleneck_?!

"Want to tell us the New Directions' setlist?" Hunter said, loud enough to be heard over Sam's desperate laughter. And though he was quite enjoying the sight of watching his victim squirm, he took his hands and the feather away for a brief moment, tempting our hero with the prospect of getting this torment to end...

_No!_ Sam gasped in air defiantly, panting heavily as he locked eyes with Hunter beneath his dampening hair:

"Never."

Hunter shook his head. He almost pitied this handsome simpleton. Noble as he was, it was sure to be his downfall. "Famous last words...Blonde Chameleon."

He didn't notice the brush until it was too late.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Sam yelped, immediately dissolving into feverish fits. " _WHY_ -HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" Tears filled the corners of his eyes and leaked down onto his cheeks; his ribs ached as he cackled, restrained and utterly helpless to the attack on his ridiculously ticklish size fourteens.

For several minutes, Hunter continued to tickle Sam's big, bare feet — though the torture seemed endless for our intrepid young impersonator. When he finally was given a reprieve, sweat was running down his face, his feet twitching with residual sensitivity.

"Let me make you a deal," Hunter said, smiling wickedly. "If you can count all the way to ten... _without_ laughing...I'll let you go."

Sam shook his head weakly, tongue darting out to moisten his flushed lips. "Please stop... _please_."

"Start. Counting."

Sam couldn't even begin to think about fighting back. He would have done _anything_ to be free of this ticklish hell. "One...two...three..."

He locked eyes with Hunter, expecting his captor to lunge for his feet once more — but he didn't. "...Four..."

He was halfway there — he had to go for it —  


"Fivesixseveneightni-hi-hi-hai-hai-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!"

The feather pulled away as quickly as it rushed in. Sam gulped in air, staring Hunter down with the remnants of whatever valor he had left. "One —"

Hunter swung the feather millimeters away from the heel of Sam's foot. Sam took a breath to brace himself. "Two..."

The feather lightly traced around the heel — luckily, Sam had a few light callouses from his years in athletics and a exotic male dancing, so he was able to bite back the chuckle that bubbled up his throat: "Th...ree-heeeee..."

He wasn't going to. He couldn't. He had to...

"Fo-hohohohoho!"

Well, _shit_ , that didn't last long.

Not only that, but Hunter tookhis breaking as a cue to return _back_ to full-on, nonstop tickling, and Sam suddenly wished he could go back to counting. His laughter frenzied, the soles of his feet clenched and unclenched, toes wiggling as every nerve inside them lit up like a goddamn switchboard.

"PLE-HEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEESE! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

  
Perhaps it was the desperation in our hero's voice, or maybe Hunter was just nervous of his captor's cackling catching the attention of some unwitting passerby, but he finally stopped moments later. Our hapless hero was left a quivering mess in the armchair, its leather sticking to the sweaty skin of his newly exposed arms (the sleeves of his jacket had ridden up during the madness).

He couldn't even speak. He simply panted in utter exhaustion, eyes at half-mast. Every fiber of his body still tingled; he wasn't sure he'd ever feel his feet again.

Hunter surveyed his handiwork (or footiwork, if you prefer) with an unnervingly effective combo of sympathy and sadism. "I gotta say, I'm impressed, Evans," he said, stowing the feather. "I haven't had to move to phase two in ages."

Sam's voice was ragged with fatigue. "Phase two?"

Hunter pressed a button on his desk. A set of panels in the wall instantly split apart, folding back to reveal an ENORMOUS SCREEN — that endlessly spun with a _spinning black and white spiral!_

"Let's put it this way..." Hunter said, cocking an eyebrow. "There's no phase three."

Sam just tilted his head at the screen, eyes squinted almost in confusion. The spiral was fascinating enough as it is, but in his burned out state, it caught his attention instantly. The monochrome display pulled him in, making Hunter's explanation sound faded faraway, as though he were underwater:

"Your defenses are already shot — and let's be real, you weren't exactly the sharpest to begin with."

He pressed another button, and words began flashing across the spiral, almost too quickly to be read.

Sam leaned forward in curiosity, his addled brain doing its best to decipher what they said.

"This brainwashing program is designed to function at a military level," Hunter continued, hands folded behind his back as he marched behind Sam's chair. "You're fighting a losing battle."

One word in particular echoed through Blonde Chameleon's increasingly-fuzzy mind. "...Brainwash?"

"Think of it as hypnosis if you like," Hunter said with a shrug. "Either way, soon your feeble mind will belong to us completely."

He blinked, lips parting as he focused in further. The words seemed to sharpen in his view:

** RELAX. **

** SUBMIT. **

** OBEY. **

** RELAX. **

** SUBMIT. **

** OBEY. **

"N-no..." Sam tried to look away, but his head was too heavy to move, lolling down towards his chest. "Won't...work..."

But he had to fight it...for his friends...

Sam jerked his head back, up, eyes shooting open momentarily — but the spiral pulled him right back in. His eyelids sank like they had lead weights attached; he felt his eyes go cross, momentarily dazed by the whirling array in front of him.

"Oh, I think it's working just fine, Evans," Hunter assured him. "In fact, I think you'll find it's making you very _sleepy_."

The word _sleepy_ echoed in Sam's mind like a siren song. His eyelids drooped further, mouth hanging open. A tiny sliver of drool had formed across his lower lip.

"...Slee-py..."

"That's right," Hunter cooed, voice surprisingly soft and enticing (then again, any excuse to sleep sounded good to the mesmerized blonde). "So very sleepy..."

His body limper than a rag doll's, Sam's green eyes rolled back beneath his fluttering lids, briefly exposing the whites of his eyes. He struggled mightily to keep them focused — but try as he might, the spiral continued to wobble in his vision, his head swinging with slumber.

The commands were speeding up: **RELAX. SUBMIT. OBEY.**

** RELAX. SUBMIT. OBEY. **

"Just give in, Sam." Hunter sounded almost bored with the whole affair, as if tickling and brainwashing his show choir rivals was just a normal Thursday. "You can trust me."

The corners of Sam's mouth perked up in a dopey smile. "Give...in..."

The spiral continued to spin.

**RELAX. SUBMIT. OBEY.**

** RELAX. SUBMIT. OBEY. **

His mind was foggy — what was he giving?

He was just...too...tired...

Hunter's lips curled smugly. Sam was as good as his. "That's right, just give in."

Any Warblers passing by at that moment, had there been any, would have heard the second chorus of laughter emanating from Hunter's office that day. But this was a cackle — one that echoed in vindictive, villainous victory.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the next installment of THE SAM-CHURIAN CANDIDATE...
> 
> With Blonde Chameleon's reprogramming all but complete, an unexpected guest swoops in. Meanwhile, Nightbird has to explain how the SSOS's most dynamic duo became a dynamic uno. Also...if you're wondering where Hunter was able to obtain an enormous feather: check the taxidermy eagle in the trustees' boardroom. It looks like it has alopecia.
> 
> Stay tuned for even more avian vocabulary!


End file.
